The Addams Family Meets the Rich and Famous
by Whisperwill
Summary: What happens when the kookyness of the Addams Family meets the craziness of A Hard Day's Night?  The Addamses are in for a treat, the Beatles are in for a shock, and the reader is in for a lot of silliness.
1. The Beginning

**Disclaimer: Boy, this is bound to be a long list. I don't own _The Addams Family_. I don't own the Beatles, and I hope no one else does, either. I don't own any of their quotes which I used in this story. I don't own _A Hard Day's Night_. I don't own the song "Surfin' U.S.A.," off of which my song is loosely based, and I don't own the song "Sweet Little Sixteen," off of which "Surfin' U.S.A." is based. Whoa, that _was_ long. Did I miss anything?**

**A/N: Apparently this was originally completed in early 2009. It was hugely fun and challenging to write. I'm a fan of _The Addams Family_, and I'm a huge fan of the Beatles. To mix them both together was just a bonus for me. Can't you just see the four of them making a guest appearance on this show in the '60s (if they weren't so friggin' busy all the time)? Please read and review!**

**The Addams Family Meets the Rich-and-Famous**

"Mother!" called Wednesday, picking her way daintily down the stairs with Pugsley close behind. Morticia looked up from her knitting with a smile.

"What is it, children?" she asked.

"May we please use one of your eye-of-newts?" Wednesday asked, the picture of politeness.

"But I'm planning on baking eye of newt for dinner," Morticia pointed out. "Your father is in the process of writing up Mama's recipe for Spanish Newt Surprise."

"I am, indeed!" Gomez confirmed, chewing on the end of his pencil. "The problem is, I can't remember what the last ingredient is. Was it baking powder?"

"I'm sure you'll think of it, dear," Morticia assured him. Wednesday and Pugsley, meanwhile, had taken on expressions reminiscent of children who'd just received coal in their Christmas stockings.

"Oh, please, _please,_ couldn't we just have one eye of newt?" Wednesday begged.

"We found Grandmama's old spell book," Pugsley explained. "We wanted to try out the spell for summoning a person from a far-off land."

"Well. . ." Morticia hesitated, but she couldn't bear to disappoint her hopeful children. "All right, then, but just one. Have Lurch get it for you."

The children cheered and scampered off to find the family butler while Gomez cried, "Eureka! I remember now." Holding his cigar in one hand, he scribbled furiously with the other. "The final ingredient is gunpowder." He flashed his wife a grin. "It really puts the surprise in Newt Surprise."

"It wouldn't be the same without it," Morticia agreed, taking the paper from him. "I do hope the children succeed with their little spell. They get so disappointed when it doesn't work out."

Gomez gave an airy wave of his cigar, lacing the air around him with smoke. "Of course they'll succeed, my dear. They've inherited my cleverness and your delicate touch. Plus, they have Mama's fail-safe spell book. You'll see—in a few minutes the air will ring with their cries of delight."


	2. The Spell

"When mixture comes to a boil, add the eye of newt and recite a proper incantation," Pugsley read to Wednesday.

"I didn't know ice water could come to a boil," Wednesday said cheerfully, stirring the brew in their little cauldron. With an uncertain glance at her brother, she asked, "What should we say?"

"The book just says that it should rhyme," Pugsley said, shrugging. "Guess we'll make it up as we go along."

"Okay, then." Wednesday tossed in the tiny eye with flourish. "Eye of newt, and tongue of frog," she began.

"Slimy seaweed from Funeral Bog," Pugsley reminded her, still being careful to rhyme.

"Bring us someone from a far off land." Wednesday stopped after the third line, not quite knowing how to round out their impromptu composition. Then Pugsley, struck by inspiration, delivered the coda.

"Make it some people from a rock 'n' roll band!"

Thirteen seconds later, the doorbell rang.


	3. The Beatles Arrive

It was completely dumbfounding. First they were in their dressing room, John and Paul bashing away at their guitars. Then, suddenly, a rush of color and sound, coupled with the horrible smell of rotting seaweed. Next thing they all knew, they were standing on a doorstep in front of a decidedly creepy-looking old house. And, of course, it was Ringo who stumbled against the doorbell by mistake. The bell, angry at such an uncalled-for invasion of personal space, launched itself outward, pelting Ringo into his fellow Beatles and scattering them all like dice.

The door opened with an audible creak. Paul, George, and Ringo, picking themselves up off the lawn with muttered oaths, were stunned into silence by the mere sight of the World's Tallest Butler. They stared at him wordlessly while John was busy extricating himself from the roseless rose beds.

"Yes?" Lurch asked simply.

"We want to see the head of the house," John announced bluntly, with the self-confidence of one whose requests are never denied. He was still too busy picking thorns from his tailored suit to notice the shocking sight standing in the doorway. "Now."

"Follow me," Lurch commanded. He stepped inside, followed by still-preoccupied John and, at a safe distance, the other three.

He proceeded to lead them into the living room—no one, fortunately stepped on the polar bear rug. Leaving them to gawk at their surroundings, he said succinctly, "Wait here."

"Why can't the fans send us things like this?" George wondered aloud to the other three, wandering over to stroke the two-headed tortoise experimentally.

"Never mind that; what are we _doing_ here?" Paul demanded to know.

"Maybe it's a dream . . .or a nightmare," Ringo suggested, his eyes fixed incredulously on the absurd swordfish with a human leg sticking out of its mouth.

"Right, Ring," John agreed sarcastically. "We're all having the same dream at the same time. In a moment, we'll all sit down to tea with Buddy Holly."

"Have you got a better idea?" George piped up in Ringo's defense.

"No, but _they'd_ better," John said darkly, nodding at the mustachioed man approaching them and leading a gorgeous woman by the hand. Lurch appeared from a side door, holding out a giant hand as if to make introductions. Then, realizing he didn't know their names, he merely shrugged and walked away.

"On your way to a costume party?" Paul asked, eyeing the woman's fantastic dress.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," the man answered with a genial smile. He extended a hand to shake Paul's. "Gomez Addams, at your service, gentlemen. This is my lovely wife, Morticia. Who might you four be?"

Paul opened his mouth to speak, but John beat him to the punch. "John Leopard," he said, pointing to himself. "That's Paul McCharming, Ringo Stone, and George Parasol," he recited, indicating each of them in turn. "And we want answers."

"Splendid!" Morcicia declared, smiling serenely. "What would you like to know?"

"We want to know how we got here," the Fab Four chorused.

"Oooh, I love guessing games!" Gomez cried eagerly. He began puffing madly on his cigar, ticking off the facts on his fingers. "Let's see . . .judging by your foreign accents, your hyperbolic hairstyles, and the immaculate condition of your suits, I'd say you're a quartet of Italian businessmen who flew to America on a plane. Am I right?"

"Enough jokes," John said flatly. "Cut the wisecracks and tell us what we're doing here."

"I'm afraid we don't quite understand you," said Morticia, uncertain. "You see, _we _can't tell you how you got here; only _you_ know that. Perhaps you walked, or rode bicycles, or—"

"Don't give me any of that!" John yelled, his voice rising as abruptly as his temper. "One minute, we're in our room; the next, _bang_, we're here—wherever here is. Will somebody tell me _where_ we are, _how_ we came here, and _what_—"

"We can tell you!" came a cry from the stairs. A chubby boy, followed by a toothpick of a girl, ran down the flight of steps and up to them.

"We brought you here—my brother and me," the girl explained.

"I _said_, enough jokes," John replied through gritted teeth.

"But it's true!" the boy insisted. "We used our grandma's spell book to bring you to America from a far-off land."

"Dear little Wednesday and Pugsley," Morticia said fondly. "So your spell worked, after all. Congratulations, dears."

"Of _course_ a spell brought us here," John said, rolling his eyes. "Why didn't I guess? It's so obvious."

"Yes, you'll have to forgive our children," Gomez said with a chuckle, missing the other's sardonicism. "If we've caused you any inconvenience—"

"Oh no, no inconvenience at all," John assured them, sarcastic once more. "We've got a press conference and a concert in five minutes. I'm sure all the fans in Edinburgh won't even _no_tice if we don't turn up."

"Gomez, I'm afraid that we've caused a lot of trouble for these young men," Morticia fretted. She turned to the Beatles with an apologetic smile. "We're very sorry to have inconvenienced you. Would you care to stay with us? We have plenty of rooms, and after all, it's the least we can do now that you're here."

"Just one last question," George put in, finally abandoning the tortoise and joining them. "Have you ever heard of a band called the Beatles?"

"Afraid not, old man," Gomez answered, shaking his head. "A shame, too—it's a brilliant name."

"Yes," Morticia agreed dreamily. "It certainly does have that something."

"We'll stay for the moment," George decided, causing the other three to squawk with protest. "Have you got a room big enough for the four of us?"

"Certainly!" replied Gomez, looking quite pleased. "You can stay in the best room in the house—the Sepulchral Suite."

"Lovely," George lied, nodding.

"_Lovely?_" John echoed, poking their guitarist in the chest. "Just what are you—"

"We can see ourselves up," George continued, elbowing John in the ribs. "Where's the suite?"

"At the top of the stairs, fourth door on the left," Morticia instructed with a charming smile. "And if you need anything, just shriek."

"Right," said George, telegraphing John, Paul, and Ringo a pointed glance. He took the stairs at a trot, while the others followed, whispering furious questions at him. They passed two peeling doors and what looked like the entrance to a dungeon before coming to their assigned room. The walls were covered with black wallpaper, and twenty beds (complete with black bedclothes) lined the perimeter of the room like soldiers. The single, tiny window at the far end looked as if it were specifically designed to let in as little light as possible.

"I'd be more comfortable in prison," Ringo said glumly. John, by now nearly apopleptic, struck an unfortunate George in the back of the head.

"I s'pose you're dead chuffed, now we've settled down in Spooksville, U.S.A.," he snarled. "Have you gone _mad_?"

"Would you rather have walked down the street to the nearest hotel; get mobbed by rabid fans?" George growled, rubbing his skull. "As long as we're unheard of here, this might be the only safe place to stay just now."

"I am _not_ spending the night with these spastics!" John yelled.

"Who said anything about spending the night?" Paul jumped into the conversation, attempting to placate his song-writing partner. "We'll just ask to use their phone, call Brian, and have him sort this out."

"_If_ it's sort-out-able," Ringo muttered. The door to their room opened to reveal the giant butler bearing a tray of what might be called food in another universe.

"A snack," he announced, setting the tray on the nearest bed. He lurched stiffly away as Wednesday trailed in.

"Hey, kid, have you got a phone we can use?" Paul asked. She shook her head matter-of-factly.

"Uncle Fester blew out the electricity last Friday," she said, helping herself to one of the smoking glasses on the tray. "He was overcharged. So now our phone doesn't work."

"But how can you get along without a telephone?" Ringo wanted to know.

"Oh, we're going to get it fixed," Wednesday assured them. "The man is coming tomorrow."

"Typical," Ringo moaned. "We're stuck here until tomorrow."

"It'll be fun!" Wednesday promised them eagerly. "Just wait till you see what we're having for dinner!"

"I can wait," John said bluntly with a nasty glance in George's direction.

"Well, I can't," Wednesday declared, oblivious to the palpable gloom that hung in the air. "Do you mind if I take one of the spider-web tarts? I'm hungry."

"Take them all," offered all four Beatles at once. Wednesday smiled brightly and complied, leaving the room with an armload of sweets. Paul shut the door firmly behind her, bolted it shut, and turned to his mates.

"Wednesday, Pugsley, Morticia . . .talk about daft nicknames," he commented with a shudder.

"And have you noticed the zombie butler?" George added, before catching John's eye and clamming up again.

"They have the maddest decorations," Ringo mused. "And I thought I'd seen it all."

"This is all an act," John stated confidently. "They're pretending not to know who we are, pretending to live in the Boo-Boo Land. Next thing you know, we'll be locked in the cellar, held for ransom."

"Which would _still_ be safer than it is outside," George insisted, doggedly (and bravely) maintaining his argument. John stalked up to him and shoved his face so close to the other's that their noses were just shy of touching.

"We're sitting in the trenches about to get raked, and you talk about safe," he sneered.

"We're about to go down to an American dinner party, and you talk about risk," George retorted, well-aware that John was radiating challenge and well-prepared to meet it head-on.

"American dinner party, sure," John said sarcastically. "What are we having to eat, here in the typical American home? Broiled tentacle of octopus?"

"Certainly not!" Gomez called from the door, where he'd appeared with unnerving suddenness and mysteriously opened the locked door. "Eating the family pet? Unthinkable."

"Pet?" Paul and George repeated blankly.

"As a matter of fact, we're having eye of newt," Gomez informed them. "Only the best for our guests."

"The best?" John and Ringo repeated blankly.

"Certainly!" Gomez declared. "Can't beat fresh-baked eye of newt."

"Can't beat it," the four of them echoed faintly.

"Well, hurry up, gentlemen. Can't let it get cold," Gomez urged, galloping out ahead of them like a Spanish conquistador. The Beatles followed, trudging behind him like doomed gladiators.

Downstairs, the table had been laid with fine silver dishes and a black velvet tablecloth. Morticia smiled seductively as everyone sat down. "Lurch will be right in with the main course," she promised. The Addams children squirmed with anticipation; the Beatles squirmed with trepidation. Lurch brought in a silver platter and set it ceremoniously on the table. A grinning Gomez made use of the butler's sandpapery hands to light a match and, with flourish, tossed it into the center of the Spanish Newt Surprise.

KA-BOOM!

A deafening blast shook the house like an earthquake. In the resulting smoke and confusion, it was impossible to tell whether the Fab Four fell out of their chairs or vacated them voluntarily.

"I told you!" John shouted triumphantly to George. All four of them were lying flat on their stomachs and looked not unlike soldiers huddled in the trenches.

"Gomez, I think we ought to have warned them first," Morticia was heard to say from above. As the acrid smoke cleared, Lurch pulled the musicians to their feet two at a time.

"Warn them!" Gomez scoffed. "And take away the surprise? Just look at them!" He was clearly delighted by the sight: the foursome's tailored suits were encased in a fine layer of ash.

"You won't win any beauty contests, either," John shot back. This was true enough, as Gomez's face was blackened from the explosion.

"Gentlemen," Gomez said with an air of mystique and a wide grin, "beauty isn't the issue."

"Is it terrorism?" asked George, who seemed be siding with John at last.

"Wherever would you get an idea like that?" Morticia inquired, waving her hand gracefully to clear the smoke encircling her head.

"The issue is _dinner_!" Pugsley shouted, eager to start eating.

"Right, Pugsley—but remember, guests are served first," Gomez reminded him. The Beatles stared aghast at the main course which, aside from the fact that it was nothing more than eyeballs, was burnt to a crisp. George was the first to come up with an alibi.

"It all looks so delicious,"—his lip curled with barely disguised distaste—"but I'm afraid after all the excitement . . .getting poofed here and all . . .I'm just not hungry."

"I'm allergic to eyes," Ringo offered. "Make me break out in a rash."

"I'm on a strict diet," was Paul's excuse.

"Nonsense, gentlemen!" Gomez boomed. "I won't take 'no' for an answer."

"_No_." John knew how not to mince words.

"Well, if you put it that way. . ." Gomez backed off with a shrug.

"Oh, but I _did_ so want you to try it," Morticia mourned. "It's my speciality."

"Look at it this way," Paul urged, instinctively smoothing feathers. "Why waste it on four guys who couldn't appreciate it? Y'know, with diets and allergies and all."

"I suppose," Morticia sighed.

"And don't worry about us; just enjoy your supper," Paul continued. "We know where the room is."

And, full of relief that they were still of sound body and mind, the four of them hightailed it back to their dismal suite.

"Are you _sure_ this isn't a nightmare?" Ringo asked as George sank onto one of the beds and unfolded his long legs to lie down.

"We've _got_ to get out of here," Paul hissed, pacing back and forth. John began playing a funeral march on his harmonica, which didn't improve the mood.

"Have you got any bright ideas?" George's question was heavy with sarcasm. "We still can't leave. No policeman, no protection? We'd be trampled underfoot like the Beatles we are."

"So we stay here until tomorrow?" Ringo asked, fear in his voice.

"We can take the night in watches, around two hours each," John suggested. "And if anyone attacks us, we'll sic Teddy-boy Ringo on 'em."

"Right," Ringo agreed. "I'll throw my teddy at 'em."

"I'll take first watch," Paul volunteered. And they switched sentry duty faithfully all night long, but nothing out-of-the-ordinary happened.

**A/N: Being a HUGE Beatles fan, I will now outline where I got some of my dialogue and narrative. I don't have all the details, though.  
>1. "Bashing away" at their guitars. I'm pretty sure the Beatles (probably John) used this description somewhere when describing their playing.<br>2. John had myopia (nearsightedness), which is another reason why I had him never noticing how creepy Lurch is. He couldn't see well.  
>3. "Right, Ring." I'm not sure about the other two Beatles, but John was known to call Ringo by the nickname of "Ring."<br>4. "In a moment, we'll all sit down to tea with Buddy Holly." Sarcasm from John, as this story is loosely set in 1964, after Buddy Holly, Ritchie  
>Valens, and the "Big Bopper" died in the legendary plane crash.<strong>**  
>5. "John Leopard...Paul McCharming, Ringo Stone, and George Parasol." John introduced them like this in one of their interviews.<br>6. I am well aware that, in one episode of _The Addams Family_, it is revealed that they do in fact know about the Beatles. (One of them suggests  
>that Cousin Itt join the Beatles.) However, in my story, they have never heard of them.<br>7. "Dead chuffed" means highly pleased, in Brit slang. After the release of their first album, _Please Please Me_, John said that the four of them  
>were "dead chuffed."<br>8. "Spastics." John was fond of this word. He seemed to use it loosely to refer to disabled people or people he thought were weird.  
>9. "The Boo-Boo Land." Another John original from one the Beatles' many interviews.<br>10. "Teddy-boy Ringo." Teddy-boys were tough guys in Britain at the time, gang members. Ringo was in a gang when he was young. He  
>dressed accordingly so that people could tell by looking at him that he was a gang member. He said that if you were from the Dingle (his<br>neighborhood in Liverpool), and weren't in a gang, you were in trouble. B****efore he joined their band, the other Beatles were rather afraid of  
>him.<strong>


	4. The Next Morning

"The sun shines everywhere in America," George told the others with a yawn. "Everywhere but here."

"Ah, cheer up," Paul encouraged him. "Today's the day we escape this freak show."

The door to their room, apparently unaware that it was still bolted shut, swung open creakily. Lurch appeared, to everyone's dismay.

"Breakfast," he grunted: it was more of a command than an invitation.

"We're not hungry," the lads from Liverpool answered together. The butler raised a highly skeptical eyebrow.

"You see, in England, we wait to eat until teatime," Ringo fibbed. The others nodded in agreement. This seemed to satisfy Lurch, who shrugged and left. Hardly had he gone when Gomez appeared, puffing busily at his cigar.

"Good morning, gentlemen!" he boomed. "How was your—" But he was cut off by a shout from outside. A moment later, a very bald, very weird little man walked in, glaring at the Beatles rather savagely.

"You brought in _foreigners_?" he shrieked, turning on his nephew furiously. "Gomez, where's your sense? Have you thought about the influence they'll have on your children?"

"Fester, I—" Gomez started to explain, but was cut off again.

"And I suppose you didn't ever consider having Lurch frisk them," he ranted on. Turning to the Fab Four, he deftly snatched the harmonica from John's hand. "What about _this_, huh? Hiding it in his pocket until you came in. Who knows what it does?"

"_I'll_ show you what it does," John growled, snatching it back. He pressed his lips against the highest note and blew a shrieking whistle directly into Fester's ear.

"See? _See_?" Uncle Fester raged, sparks practically shooting from his eyes at John. "He's trying to deafen me!"

"And you're trying to cop my mouth organ," John countered.

"Gomez, I can't believe you let them stay the night," Fester continued in his tirade. "With their weird suits and their weird accents and their weird hair—"

"At least we've _got_ hair," John interjected spitefully.

"—and complete lack of respect!" Fester finished, glaring in the direction of his tormentor. "I just can't _believe_ we're giving these ingrates room and board!"

"And we can't wait to leave!" John one-upped Fester in vocal volume.

"You four don't like it here?" Gomez asked, hurt evident in his voice.

"_Told_ you they were a bunch of ingrates," Fester said with satisfaction.

There was a brief, awkward pause while Gomez stared at the floor and Fester eyeballed the Beatles. Paul, quite incompatible with awkwardness, strove to mend John's truthful insult.

"Look, we're not ingrates. We're quite pleased to have a room here and all that," he said, cleverly weaving truth with deceit. "It's just very important that we get back to England as soon as possible. You know how busy Italian businessmen get."

"Indeed," Gomez agreed. "I'm a busy man myself. Well, if you wanted to return home so badly, you should have just asked Grandmama."

Right on cue, a shawl-wrapped hag of a woman breezed into the room, patting her wild white hair into place as if she were Marilyn Monroe. "The spell came from _my _book," she declared with a Pollyanna grin, "and _I _can undo it."

**A/N: One quick Beatle-y note: "mouth organ" is Brit slang for "harmonica."**


	5. The Recompensation

The potion ever-so-carefully brewed by Grandmama was a mirror image of Wednesday and Pugsley's. Into the bubbling cauldron went frogs' legs, milkweed fluff, and ice cubes. Just as the brew was on the verge of completion, the old woman hesitated, holding the newt tail while scrutinizing her spell book.

"There's a catch," she announced.

"Figures," John muttered.

" 'You can't get something for nothing; on this the spell depends,' " Grandmama read aloud.

" 'Those to be sent must recompense to further their own ends.' "

Correctly interpreting the uncomprehending stares of the Beatles, Morticia sought to enlighten them. "Before the spell can take effect, you must give something back," she explained.

"What can you give a spell?" Ringo pointed out reasonably.

"You have to give something to _us_," Morticia corrected him, "before we we can say _adieu_." At this last word, Gomez's eyes lit manically and he began showering her arm with kisses.

"Tish, you know what that French does to me," he murmured. Morticia smiled nonchalantly at the Beatles, who were gazing at the romantic spectacle with interest.

"What are your talents, your gifts?" she asked them as Gomez gradually moved upward to her shoulder. "Perhaps you could recompense us that way."

"We write songs," offered John, smirking at the love scene playing out before him.

"Oh? What kinds?" Morticia asked, finally extricating herself from her husband with a whispered, "Later, darling."

"Put it this way: we write like he acts," John answered dryly, pointing at Gomez.

"Ah, then your songs must be capital!" Gomez said enthusiastically.

"How d'you know our record label?" Ringo asked, confused. But the question was lost on Gomez, who was making a suggestion to his wife.

"What if these four young men were to compose a song for us?" he proposed.

"We need guitars first," George was quick to point out.

"Of course, of course," Gomez replied. "We'll have Lurch bring down the instruments from the attic."


	6. The Song

A few minutes later, four bemused Beatles were set to give a private concert from the Addams family's couch. Various guitars were littered around them, along with an aged trumpet, a tambourine, a dagger, and several brass knuckles and thumbscrews (Lurch had interpreted "instruments" to mean both musical instruments and instruments of torture). John, Paul, and George set about tuning whichever guitar suited them, and Ringo picked up the tambourine. It was John who got the song started. He struck a minor chord and began crawling upward with progressively higher and higher chords, his voice following the guitar up.

"Don't know how it came about,

But now I can't get out

The way I got in,

For to go would be a sin.

So we're stuck in this trap;

We're off the edge of the map.

And now I'm doomed to stay

In Spooksville, U.S.A." Paul intuitively began a relentless one-note bass line, which John enhanced with pounding chords. Ringo joined in, shaking the tambourine, as more lyrics were added.

"Spooksville, U.S.A.," John sang at a pitch so low it was almost a growl.

"My hometown far away.

I'm giving cabaret

In Spooksville, U.S.A.

Please don't make me stay

In Spooksville, U.S.A." Over the noise of George's guitar riff, he called, "All Paul now."

Paul hesitated, searching for words while he continued his bass line. After a pause, he began.

"The place has got some crazy chicks;

They always wear bright black.

But I would trade them all away,

If I could just get back.

Gotta get back home, now,

Back where I belong.

Why else would I be singing

This kooky, spooky song?" He gave George a nod, and the lead guitarist began to sing.

"The men in Spooksville, U.S.A.,

Know how to treat their wives.

They buy their women thumbscrew rings

And gold-embroidered knives.

They honeymoon in Auschwitz

And Transylvania, too.

And if you're not careful,

They might decapitate you." He rounded out his verse with a wild twelve-bar guitar solo, then gave the floor to Ringo with a shout of "Starr time!"

Ringo shook his tambourine with exaggerated ostentation and shouted his lines to be heard over the other three, who were playing at high volume in an attempt to take the mickey out of him.

"All down the streets of Spooksville,

Run little girls and boys.

They play with guns and headless dolls,

And other harmless toys.

They play all night like vampires,

Until the rising sun

Drives them back into their coffins,

When the night is done." As if taking an invisible cue, all four of them brought the song to a close with a well-placed chord and a rapid shaking of the tambourine.

"Oh, that was exquisite!" Morticia praised, approaching them with stars in her eyes.

"Bravo, bravo!" Gomez agreed, clapping. John cast his fellow band members a look of surprise and a shrug: he had intended the song to offend their creepy hosts.

"Glad you liked it," he answered, although it was obvious that he could care less whether or not his composition was appreciated. The four of them set aside the instruments and got to their feet.

"Well, we'd better get going," Paul said with a superficial smile. "It's been lovely."

"Yeah," John concurred dryly. "We'll have to not do this again sometime. Real soon."

Wednesday sighed with disappointment. "You're leaving? Already?"

"Sorry, kid," George said. "You wouldn't believe how many people are waiting for us back home." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a coin, and gave it to her. "Here, it's a shilling—that's British money. Something to remember us by."

Wednesday grinned and bent down to pick up something off the floor. She pressed it into George's hand, saying, "We don't want you to forget_ us_, either."

"Thanks," George replied, squinting at his gift. "I've always wanted a thumbscrew."

Meanwhile, Grandmama gestured to them from the corner, calling, "The potion is ready!"

The Beatles assembled around the frothing mixture, not bothering to ask how it was boiling when there wasn't a fire in sight. Over Wednesday's and Pugsley's shouts of "Goodbye!" and Morticia's "_Au revior_!", Grandmama chanted,

"Tail of newt and leg of frog,

Milkweed seed from Funeral Bog,

Send these boys back from whence they came—" Like her grandchildren, she paused uncertainly on the eve of the final line of poetry. Addamses were famous for their difficulty in finishing spells. John, impatient to leave, added his own conclusion.

"Back to fortune and mind-numbing fame."

And in a surprisingly mild puff of smoke, they were gone.

**A/N: Notes on Beatle-ness again!  
>1. "Spooksville, U.S.A." is obviously not a real Beatles song, nor am I insinuating that they ever wroteperformed/released anything of the sort.  
>I have the whole tune in my head. The start with John is kind of like the beginning to "Take Good Care of My Baby," by Bobby Vee (and<br>coincidentally performed by the Beatles, too). After the start of the "relentless one-note bass line," it's halfway between the way my dad  
>sounds when he's guitar jamming and the sound of "Sweet Little Sixteen," by Chuck Berry.<br>2. "All Paul," as John puts it, is something he really said...somewhere. I just can't remember where.  
>3. "Back where I belong." A brief reference to "Get Back," sort of.<br>4. "Starr time!" In their early career, before they were internationally famous, the Beatles would dedicate a segment of their live performances to  
>Ringo, having him as the solo performer or star performer. They called it "Starr time." They did this later in their career, too, obviously. I just<br>don't think they called it "Starr time" later on.  
>5. "Headless dolls." Remember Wednesday's dolly, Marie Antoinette?<strong>


	7. The Return

There they were, back in the dressing room, and there was Neil, telling them that the press conference would be held in five minutes' time. It was as if nothing out-of-the-ordinary had ever happened.

"I just had a completely mental dream," John commented with a casual strum on his guitar.

"Me, too," George, Paul, and Ringo answered at the same time. Uneasy and unsure what to say, they plucked aimlessly on their guitars. Then John gave a light-hearted grin and said with a chuckle, "The band that dreams together stays together." He teased his ample fringe into place and walked out, followed by Paul. This left George and Ringo alone in the room, staring uncertainly at one another.

"A thumbscrew for your thoughts," George offered, holding the instrument of torture up to the light.

Ringo nodded at it, pointing out, "_That's_ real enough."

George nodded absentmindedly; it was hard to deny the genuineness of their adventure when the proof was right in front of them. They continued to stare at each other for a long moment, and finally shrugged. George tossed the thumbscrew across the room, where it landed in a garbage can. "Come on," he cajoled his friend. "You know how much you love meeting the press."

The weirdness that had taken place was quickly forgotten, and none of the four ever mentioned it again.


	8. The End

"Four great somethings have just walked out of our lives," Morticia stated sadly. "And we don't have anything but a shilling to remember them by." On the sofa next to her, Gomez nodded glumly. A creaking noise announced the arrival of Thing from his box; however, instead of commiserating with them, he waved a piece of paper in the air.

"What is it, Thing?" asked Morticia, taking the paper from him. As soon as she had begun to read the writing on it, her face broke out into a smile. "Oh, Gomez, isn't it wonderful? Dear Thing has written down all the lyrics to 'Spooksville, U.S.A.' "

"Great memory that Thing has," Gomez said, reading over his wife's shoulder.

"And such perfect handwriting," Morticia complimented. Thing bowed graciously; he was a very modest Thing, after all.

_The End_


End file.
